


I'm On the Edge of a Cliff, Surpassing Comfort and Security

by HarveyWallbanger



Series: Hanna Is Not Fan-Wanking Disguised As a Story [2]
Category: Hanna Is Not A Boy's Name
Genre: Gen, arty bullshit, fan-wanking disguised as a story, mild violence, possibly disturbing, references to canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-16
Updated: 2012-03-16
Packaged: 2017-11-02 00:36:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ples is still putting himself together.  Takes place immediately after "Yes, the Window Still Opens If the Door Is Closed".</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm On the Edge of a Cliff, Surpassing Comfort and Security

**Author's Note:**

> I am not Tessa Stone, and this school is not Tessa Stone. I'm definitely not getting paid for this. Title comes from Wind In the Wires, by Patrick Wolf.

It's not that he's evil; he just doesn't want to cease to exist. There's a kind of logic to the things he does, even though they seem illogical, unto madness. They say that in order to end an unsettling dream, one must shock oneself out of it. Shelley said, more or less, that life is a dream, but you've seen enough of death to know that it's a sort of dream, itself. A long, liquid, muddled dream, in which one can only just see and hear, but not do much more. What you experience every Friday night, the other one experiences all the time. Your other half, you'd call him, if you were romantic or cruel, or both. You're neither, though, so you think of him as something like a stuffed animal- as in taxidermy. Bearing the semblance of the living beast, but only able to look out from button eyes at whatever else happens to be in the room.  
You feel a rush of panic, not cold or hot, but merely room temperature. Like the time you over-did it, and woke up with wet trousers. You'd been ready to burst into tears, from shame and from the headache boiling behind your eyes, when you realized that you'd spilled your drink on yourself. Then, you'd laughed until you'd gagged on the laughter, and had to make a run for the toilet. That didn't happen.  
You feel a rush of panic. Why are you upstairs? Yes, the guests, that's right. But what guests? The ones who came without being invited, you say to yourself. Though, sometimes, when you speak to yourself, it's not quite your voice. Why am I holding a gun? You were showing it to them. Why are they upstairs? It's a game, Ples. You remember games, don't you?  
Slowly, you're becoming more aware of your surroundings. Somewhere close, there's the sound of breaking glass. And a ticking. Very strange. You haven't got a watch on you. There's a pain in your side, and a strange wet feeling, there. You've probably spilt your drink again. Clumsy.  
Where were you? Right. The man in the theatre. He's gone there to look for something. He won't tell you what it is. No– he mumbled something about a lady's coat, when he thought you weren't listening. He must have been there, with her, and she forgot it. It's very nice of him to go back. And then, he's unwell. Coughing. Then, he's very unwell, indeed, and you hear yourself say, No, very softly. Then, you're at home again, your hand shaking so badly that you drop your glass. How did the shards get across the room, though, and the wall opposite you become stained with whiskey? You're becoming very clumsy, indeed.  
You're at the bar. This man, obviously drunk, is telling you some inane story, and you're playing along, because it costs you nothing, and perhaps he'll buy you a drink for being a good sport. He's good-looking, in a bland fashion that suggests that to be otherwise would require too much effort, so he's taken the path of least resistance. Still, if he shows any interest, you're game. He's telling you about a theatre, and you're sure that it's some sad pretense, meant to maintain a façade of heterosexuality until the last possible moment. Then, he starts talking about a woman, and you roll your eyes. If this is the way it's going to be, you might as well take home a bottle, and diddle yourself. Something changes, though, as if a switch has been flipped. You feel yourself become sort of spiny on the inside, as though you'd swallowed brambles. You think of the blackberry patch close to the house where you grew up. You smile, but not because of that. The smile creeps out from memory, and onto your face, in this moment.

Then, there is darkness. Luscious and pliant like velvet. My head, you say. You don't hear yourself say it; you just say it. The pain comes first. Then, the sound of ticking. You open your eyes. A boy you've never seen before, with eyes and teeth that are somehow wrong, is shouting at you. He's barely restrained by another boy, with red hair, and a girl, with blue streaks in hers.  
"I know you," you say.  
There's also a gentleman who's seen better days, to say the least. He raises his eyebrows.  
"I know you, as well," you say, and then, again, "My head."  
"Sorry about that," says the redhaired boy, flashing an absurd grin, "But you were trying to kill us."  
"Was I?"  
"Um, yeah," huffs the girl.  
"That doesn't seem like something I'd do," you say. It lacks conviction. You frown, and change the subject. "Excuse me, but just who are you?"  
"Well," says the redhead, "this is Veser." You assume he means the boy with the strange eyes and teeth, who's stopped struggling, and just sort of folded in on himself, muttering a lot of words beginning with the letter 'F'. "This is Toni."  
"Hi," says the girl.  
"This is Ferdinand."  
The greenish fellow lifts a hand and gives a clipped wave.  
"And I'm Hanna."  
"Hanna," you say, "where have I seen you before?"  
The fading coolness of coins in your hand. The solidity of bottles, swaddled in brown paper. "Did you follow me home?"  
The expression of the boy, Hanna, goes, in the span of milliseconds, from embarrassed to pained to defiant.  
"We thought you were involved in something to do with one of our friends-" he trails off, frowns, and then darts out of the room.  
"I'm glad we cleared that up," you say, taking off your glasses, and touching the back of your head. You wince.  
You look at the people remaining in the room. Toni looks sheepish and disappointed. Ferdinand is inscrutable. Veser fixes you with yellow-green eyes- like a cat's, but with pupils that are round, and not slits- and says, "The fuck are you looking at?"  
Thankfully, you don't have to think of an answer, because Hanna comes running back into the room. "You guys," he yelps, "where the hell is Conrad?"


End file.
